Make way for Stu McLamb, a genuine new talent with a name straight out of the annals of McDonald's villainy. Imagined dalliances with the Hamburglar aside, McLamb really can sing-- improbably, his voice veered from Roy Orbison croon to Walkmen-style bleat last night while his band swelled and cracked alt country a Whiskeytown fan could love. There's an attractive symmetry to North Carolina's the Love Language on stage; two female keyboardists far right and far left, a bass and a rhythm on either side of McLamb, and a drummer in back. Also, the Love Language is just attractive-- at least four members could be models. Can't hurt.

Especially when they're offering songs that peak on their own, like if Arcade Fire's big moments came out of back porch jam sessions. And then there's "Lalita", a garage-pop break with a tremulous grip on love, life, faith, all of it. McLamb dropped "We are the Love Language" three times during the set. Soon, he won't have to do that stuff at all. Sooner the better.

The Postelles [Maggie Mae's Rooftop; 9 p.m.]

New York City's the Postelles will not win any awards for originality. They sound like the Strokes, sometimes coming too close to "tribute band" territory. But they're not hiding from the reference-- shit, Strokes guitarist Albert Hammond, Jr. produced one of their singles. Thing is most Postelles songs are better than almost every song on the last Strokes album. And better than much of Hammond's solo material. With the future of the Strokes questionable at best, these pupils are filling a void. Who wouldn't want to hear a bunch of great new Strokes songs. Even if they're not, you know, by the Strokes?

Still, a couple things going against the band: The singer looks like a drummer, the guitarist looks like a singer, the bassist looks like a guitarist, and the drummer looks like a stumbling goofball out of a 1980s teen movie. But leader Daniel Balk does have a scruffy, James Franco thing going on at least. Admittedly, the Motown-via-treble guitars still get my foot in action. It's a weakness. And, in the hands of the Postelles, it's also a strength. Unfortunately, their SXSW venue-- a rooftop overlooking 6th Street-- gave the performance an amateur feel thanks to a distracting, slow trickle of people walking right next to them on the glorified patio. Their debut album is due "in the next four to eight months," according to some sheepish banter, which sounds troubling. They played a new song they "wrote this week"-- usually a recipe for disaster. But no. It fit with the other Strokes Again jams. Maybe they'll jump start Julian.

The Bat Bar is not a real bar, though there is a bar in the Bat Bar. It's confusing. Located in Austin's SXSW HQ, the Bat Bar is a TV studio set as much as an actual stage. It was built to look like a place called the Bat Bar, apparently, and comes off a little Star Search-y. It's the home of one of those live music shows on DirectTV that you end up watching even though you don't even like Norah Jones. Anyway, the taped set-up meant a startlingly stereotypical British producer-dude with headphones and a clipboard had to warm up the crowd a little before Solange took the stage. There's no applause sign, so the guy had to make a "follow me" motion to draw some introductory cheers.

Solange can't dance, but she can sing. An odd mix of hippie and girl-group throwback, she exudes confidence even if people come to see her hoping for nothing more than a familial glimpse. Little sister or no, she wasn't afraid to go for the Mariah high notes, jump up and down in high heels like a spazz, and play a spot-on cover of the Cardigans' "Lovefool". Her smile was painted on, but I guess she was technically on TV, so she had to project. When she asked how many people bought her debut LP, the crowd collectively told a few little white lies by-way-of applause. Nothing against Solange, whose past'n'future soul LP is quite good, it's just that the bar is set very high for her. And there's no way around it.

Tinted Windows [Pangaea; 12 a.m.]

Basically showed up to the new James Iha, Bun E. Carlos, Taylor Hanson, Adam Schlesinger band as a goof, but was sorta unnerved by the experience. Pangaea is like a real swanky club, with a smarmy doorman and a VIP featuring people waving around bottles of booze with lit sparklers attached to them. Douchebags and bimbos aplenty. And this was a showcase by Billboard-- one of the most straightforward, no-nonsense publications out there. The jerky party seemed out of character at best, a fading dinosaur in denial at worst. Tinted Windows are an instant novelty, and their songs sounded like Hanson mixed with Fountains of Wayne. I didn't have to watch "industry insiders" in the crowd act like morons to tell you that, probably. I left after a couple songs because I wanted to get a good spot for Dinosaur Jr.

Dinosaur Jr. [Cedar Street Courtyard; 12:30 a.m.]

And I got a good spot for Dinosaur Jr. Hard to talk about Mascis, Barlow, and Murph without talking about loud. "You need ear plugs?" Barlow asked the crowd right before they started. Then he quipped, "It's far too late for that!" before falling into a ridiculous cartoon villain laugh for about 30 seconds. At one point, Broken Social Scene leader (and devout Dino fan and collaborator) Kevin Drew popped in to sing. When Drew left, he made a "I can't hear shit right now because I was just standing in front of Lou's stack" expression that meant a lot since it came from the front man of an indie rock army; he's used to loud. But not that loud.

They played "hits" and songs from their remarkable comeback album. During the night's Monster Guitar Solo I decided to focus on Mascis' face the entire time. It's a scary face nowadays, fleshy and pale. During the guitar expo, he zoned out, swayed a little, and looked like he was dreaming. Not night terrors or "like a baby" relaxation, though. More like somewhere in between, when you're still not sure how your dream will turn out-- get the girl or die jumping off a thousand-story building. And when he snapped out of the solo realm to start singing again, it looked like he was being awakened somewhere in that limbo. Until My Bloody Valentine put out a great new record, this is still the alt rock reunion to beat.